Low Tide by Joan Currie

At full tide,

my view of the Sound
was postcard perfect–

deep ultramarine water dotted with
sailboats and kayaks,
a seaplane landing,
the Olympics in the distance.

But at low tide,
the water recedes
some thirteen feet.

Now a broad beach face
dominates the seascape.

I climb down from the seawall
and begin picking my way
through the sea’s offerings:

timber and polished driftwood,
acorn barnacles perched atop rocks
like gnome caps,
kelp blades,
shucked oyster shells,
and harbor jellyfish.

Walking north,
I search the beach ridges
for treasures hidden
among the dense pebbles.

Seeing none, I turn back.

Then suddenly,
a flash between the stones–

a frosted pale-blue shard of
sea glass,
then another,
this one pale emerald green.

With each step,
another tiny treasure appears–

even a coveted piece
of cobalt blue.

I slip them into my pockets
and scan the beach for more gifts
until I reach the wall
and the tide has turned.

The show is over.